The change was bewildering. As a child, she was tall, gangly, ungraceful, scared. She had always been reserved and quiet, hiding courtiers and her brother. When she was angry, indignant at being slighted, she would slam the doors and throw a tantrum, for a child's anger stretches only that far. She had always known that she was a mistake, and a forgotten princess, which was fine by her; she would rather live in the shadows her whole life, like an old spinster (she had always been a spiteful one), and then be sold off like goods. Of course that was not to be. After her beloved brother had died mysteriously in an accident, suddenly she was the best prize to be won, and she hated it. After being sent to her disgusting fiancé's House for a year, she was ready. She had been weaving plots and she wove his shirts, careful to make sure that there were no loose ends. It wouldn't do for the fabric to unravel itself, would it?
Walking into the throne room was a challenge in itself. She had never been like this before; she could almost imagine his blood dripping from her hands, try as she might to make it disappear. As the crown was carefully lowered on her head, her resolve was steeled, and the blood was gone. It didn't matter anymore.
She swept around the halls with her stately skirts, the model of a dignified monarch. Her head was held high, and her impassive expression locked into a place, with a preternatural calmness fixed on, for the lack of a better word. Dignity was her shield, which stopped her from vomiting in revulsion as she stared into the mirror, which stopped her from imagining her bloodied hands as she ordered the punishments, which stopped her from admitting defeat as the war raged on and her country was slowly drained. Her beauty was just a façade for a lonely girl to hide behind when she realized that she had traded her very soul, to have dignity; to be a queen.